


The love I failed to feel

by Tanachvil



Series: Aftermath [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Naomi is not dead, Post Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Save Naomi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:06:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanachvil/pseuds/Tanachvil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naomi is not dead, she's listening, and she knows she has to do something.</p>
<p>***<br/>This is a little ficlet, just what I imagine happened while Metatron worked the spell to make the angels fall.</p>
<p>***</p>
            </blockquote>





	The love I failed to feel

 

* * *

 

 

“…come find me. Tell me your story.”

 

She can hear him.  
She listens while he cuts the Grace out of Castiel and she is furious.  
With herself, mostly, because how could she be so blind and so oblivious? About Castiel’s nature, about the Scribe plan, about everything.   
She is furious and she is powerless, at least until the probe is still lodged deeply inside her head, jamming her grace to her vessel, making her rest there, like a broken puppet, while the lunatic babbles about stories and normal lives and  _the spell_. She has to stop the spell, she has to… She has to save Heaven from itself, once again.  


 

The probe is hers. More than that, it’s not technically a probe.  
It’s actually an emanation of Heaven fabric itself, made solid and made sharp. It’s a piece of the soul of the world, that buzzes with grace. Her Grace.  
The probe is nothing but an idea, made real by her will.  
It takes her a while to un-think that. It’s painful, it’s like trying to forget your happiest memory, it’s like erasing from the mind of an angel his biggest accomplishment, because you know it’s what needs to be done. But it hurts.   
The Scribe is gone, so is Castiel, sent down to Earth with no Grace, almost not a single drop of Grace in him. Almost.  
She can feel the fabric of reality shiver around her, and she knows she’s almost out of time.  
The probe vanishes from her head in more than one sense, and it’s like it never was. She has no time to think of the consequences. Her blood is still on the table and she uses it to trace a sigil, one that will give her some time, at least, one that will slow the spell down, one that will warn the host of what is going on, one that will call them to arms… One that is late. So very late.  
  


When they start to fall, she can feel every single one of them.  
Some of them call to her, like she was a mother, like she was their leader… She never was, she never was meant to be.   
That is not the time to think about the mistakes they’ve all done.  
She reacts the only way she can.  
She cannot stop the spell, it’s done and it’s working its magic through the fabric of Heaven, like an electric wave, disconnecting all of them, cutting their wires.  
It’s love that is torn apart, she can see it.  
The product of love between and angel and a human. The instrument of Heaven for the humans to find love. The Grace of an angel that always had too much heart.  
That’s what it took to sever the connection.  
Warp that love, make it turn poisonous and bitter, kill it, until angels can’t feel it anymore.  
She cannot feel the presence, the longing, the peaceful desire, anymore. She knows she has it easy, if compared to the ones that are falling, like Lucifer fell.  
Lucifer refused to love and was cast down.  
They are  _made_  to refuse to love, it’s not their choice, but the effect is the same.

 

She can feel them fall, but not like Lucifer fell, not because they chose to. They were made. Like she always made them do what was meant to be done. For the first time in millennia, she feels how wrong that was, how their purpose was warped and lost in the path from the day their father told them to love and protect.  
She can feel them fall and she feels her failure to love, her failure to protect, her failure to be one of them, once again.   
The only thing she could do, in the last instant before the spell took over, was protect herself.

  
The siglil kept her safe from the fall, and now she is a wave of wrath and light, bouncing and piercing through the fabric of Heaven, so fast and silent that Metatron won’t know. He’ll think she is gone, dead, burned away as the last drop of Grace still in her vessel made her fall like the others, still stabbed with her own instrument, still powerless and beaten, now crashed, gone, forgotten, like a story he never meant to listen to.  
She doesn’t have to search, she’ll always know where to find him, after she had the chance to hold his soul in her hands while he ascended, she’s just surprised to find him  _there_. 

 

The place is homely and essential, the sigils on the doors can do little to keep her out, and yet she’s impressed that someone could manage to work that kind of magic here. Someone beside her, of course.

She enters through the wooden door, and he’s there, behind the bar, looking at her with everything but kindness in his stare, and a dirty baseball cap on his head.

  
A young man with a curious haircut, on the table to his left, is furiously working on a laptop and she can see the sparks of energy reverberate through the air… This is something she never considered, a surprise that is not unpleasant at all.   
She takes a step through the threshold and closes the door behind her, instantly reconnecting the sigils she destroyed moments before. She smiles.

 

 

“Bobby Singer… We have work to do.”


End file.
